Rain didn't fall here—it was shredded, torn apart by the twisted geometry of Blackgate's bones. Each drop screamed as it hit the cracked stone floor, dissolving into a choking fog of ash and despair. Nerin stepped forward, the weight of the Hollow Mark dragging like a chain forged from broken souls wrapped around his wrist.
The throne rose before him, a grotesque monument carved from shattered crowns and the brittle bones of kings who had died whispering lies. Its jagged edges sliced the darkness like broken glass, sharp and unforgiving. Shadows clung to it like parasites, writhing with whispered secrets that clawed at his sanity.
His breath was shallow, ragged—a rag soaked in ice water. Every inhale tasted like burnt promises and old blood. The Mark on his palm seethed, veins pulsing with black fire that threatened to consume him whole. The hunger beneath his skin was no longer a whisper. It was a roar, a beast clawing from within, demanding sacrifice.
A voice slithered from the void—ancient, dripping with sorrow and madness.
"You have come far, Hollowed. But the throne is no gift. It is a curse worn by those who broke themselves to rule shadows."
From the depths of the throne's black heart, a figure emerged: the last forgotten king. His eyes were voids filled with endless regret, his crown cracked and bleeding shadows like a wound that never healed.
"You seek power, but power demands its toll. To sit here, you must bleed the last drop of yourself."
Nerin's fingers clenched around the bone knife, cold and sharp—an extension of the hunger carving through his flesh. His voice was low, deadly, stripped of doubt.
"I am already bleeding. This hunger will not devour me. I will become it."
The king's laugh was a fracture in the night—shattered and cruel.
"Then rise, Crownbreaker. Let the ashes of fallen realms ignite your reign."
The shadows surged, wrapping Nerin in a cocoon of black fire and bone. Pain flared like a thousand knives sliding beneath his skin, memories that were not his own erupting in a storm of agony: betrayals soaked in blood, empires crumbled under silent wars, and the endless gnawing hunger of the Hollow Mark.
Every scream carved new lines in his soul, every wound was a step closer to the throne's cruel embrace. But with every surge of pain, Nerin's will sharpened—an unbreakable blade forged in suffering and wrath.
When the storm faded, Nerin stood transformed. The Mark burned brighter, no longer a curse but a crown forged in shadow and fire.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: ASPECT EVOLVED][Trait Upgraded: Hollow Rebirth → Hollow Sovereign][New Ability Unlocked: Ashen Dominion]
The gates of Blackgate trembled, reality itself bending to his will. The endless dusk outside rippled, shadows stretching and bowing.
Nerin's voice echoed through the hollow halls, cold as the void he now ruled.
"This is not the end. It is the beginning."
The Hollow Mark flared—bright as a black sun—casting a deathly glow that swallowed the light whole.
And somewhere deep inside, the hunger smiled.
The throne's grip did not release him—not truly. The shadows that had once been mere whispers now poured through Nerin's veins, a black wildfire scorching marrow and memory alike. His breath was ragged, each inhale sharp as shattered glass, the air thick with the scent of burning ash and broken dreams.
Outside, the world beyond Blackgate twisted and fractured beneath his newfound will. The endless dusk bent like a shattered mirror, reflecting a nightmare only he could command.
Nerin flexed his fingers—flames of cold fire licked at his skin, the Mark burning with a ruthless hunger that now answered only to him. The power was intoxicating, a cruel mistress whispering promises of dominion and annihilation.
A surge of voices echoed inside his mind—ghosts of kings, warriors, and beasts, all chained to the throne's blood-soaked legacy. They clamored for release, for vengeance, for oblivion.
With a voice low and resonant, Nerin spoke, words carving themselves into the fabric of the void:
"Ashen Dominion, awaken."
The darkness around him quivered, then exploded into writhing chains of obsidian flame. They shot from his fingertips, lashing the walls, ripping shadows into shards that shattered the suffocating silence. Each chain was a tether to lost souls, bending them to his iron will.
Power surged like a storm inside him—a ruthless logic unfolding cold and absolute.
He raised a hand, and the throne's shattered bones rose, assembling like a legion of spectral warriors. Their hollow eyes burned with the agony of forgotten deaths, their voices a symphony of torment and fury.
The world around Nerin rippled with the gravity of his command, the very air trembling under the weight of his sovereignty.
But power demanded sacrifice.
Pain bloomed in his chest—sharp, suffocating. Memories not his own erupted: screams twisted in agony, faces melting into ash, love turned to ruin.
Nerin gritted his teeth, the hunger clawing at his mind.
"I am no puppet. I am the sovereign of shadows. The architect of their fate."
His shadow shifted, no longer his alone—a grotesque tapestry of teeth and claws, devouring the light that dared to approach.
From the darkness beyond the throne, a shape emerged—something vast and terrible, wrapped in tattered veils of nightmare.
The Hollow Queen.
Her eyes burned like dying stars, a crown of chains spinning slowly above her gaunt head.
"Power without price is a fool's gift," she whispered, voice like the cracking of frozen bones. "Will you surrender what remains of your soul to hold the crown?"
Nerin met her gaze, the cold fire of the Mark blazing between them.
"I will burn the last piece of myself if that's what it takes."
The throne's bones groaned, shadows rising in a tempest of ash and ruin.
The trial was far from over.
And the hunger? It was only beginning to feast.
The air in the throne room thickened, each breath a struggle against a choking void. The Hollow Queen's presence was a black wound in the fabric of reality—her gaunt frame draped in veils that seemed woven from screams, and her eyeless sockets burned with the dying light of a thousand forgotten stars.
She circled Nerin like a predator savoring its prey, chains above her head humming with cruel intent. The sound was a soft rasp—a lullaby for despair, a symphony of broken hopes.
"Power," she hissed, voice fracturing like ice underfoot, "is a debt written in blood and bone. You have taken the throne, but do you understand the price?"
Nerin's jaw clenched, the Mark on his palm flaring violently as cold fire surged beneath his skin. The hunger that had once whispered now roared, clawing for release. Every step he took echoed with the weight of broken kings, every breath a promise of ruin.
"I will burn the last piece of myself," he said, voice dark and unyielding. "Because the hunger inside me is not a curse. It's a weapon."
The Queen's chains spun faster, their metallic clinks becoming a storm of impending doom. Shadows twisted and bled from the walls, forming grotesque shapes that writhed in anticipation.
"Then prove it," she commanded, raising a skeletal hand. "Survive the Gambit."
Suddenly, the throne room shattered like fragile glass, fragments of ash and bone swirling into a vortex that pulled Nerin into a new nightmare.
He fell through a void where time bled backward, the sky a bleeding wound of crimson and obsidian. The ground beneath him cracked open, revealing a labyrinthine pit filled with the screams of the Hollowed—those who had failed before him.
Nerin landed hard, the bone knife digging into the earth. The labyrinth pulsed with a sickly light, walls alive with writhing shadows and whispered curses.
From the darkness, the first trial emerged—a beast born of nightmare and sorrow, its body a mass of broken memories and shattered flesh. Its eyes were pits of endless hunger, its claws dripped with the essence of forgotten pain.
Nerin's breath hitched, the Mark burning with a cold fire as he faced the embodiment of his own fears.
The battle was not just for survival—it was a war for his soul.
And in the depths of the labyrinth, the Hollow Queen watched, her smile a blade that promised nothing but agony.